One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  “How are you?” Bob asks Scott.

  In reply, Scott raises the edge of his T-shirt to reveal a fresh white bandage. “Don’t let her fool you”—he points at me—“the lady loves her knife.”

  “He made me do it.”

  “She sliced open my chest,” Scott provides. “Didn’t warn, didn’t count down, just did it.”

  “Is there a good way to slash someone across the chest?” I pose.

  “Pus.” Miggy is already making a face. “I don’t want to remember, you don’t want to know. Lots of pus.”

  “Very cool,” Neil chimes in. “Afterwards, Scott joined me in the stream. Dropped chest first. Let the icy water work its magic.” Neil sighs happily, a clear testament to the power of glacier runoff.

  “I had no idea what I was doing,” I admit with a shrug. “Sliced him open, let the water rinse him out. Then wiped him down with the alcohol—”

  “There was some screaming,” Miggy interjects.

  “I did not—”

  “Total screaming, like a little kid who lost his ice cream cone,” Neil and I back up Miggy’s assessment.

  Scott glowers at all of us.

  “Then we gooed him up with the ointment, slapped on a bandage, and hey, he almost looks like a real person,” I finish up.

  “Lucky me,” Scott grumbles.

  Bob reaches out and lays the back of his hand against Scott’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You feel better.”

  “Power of ibuprofen.”

  “And you?” Bob turns to Neil.

  “Down with the death sled! The two-legged walk again.”

  Bob leans back slightly.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “We’ve been like this all morning. It’s possible we’re officially cracked.”

  “Can you walk?” Bob asks Neil quietly.

  “Ab-so-lute-ly!” Neil stands boldly. Promptly sways and grabs at the top edge of the root ball, then sits down hard. “I got this.”

  Bob doesn’t laugh or speak or sigh heavily. Which finally cuts through my illogical giddiness and brings me crashing back down to earth.

  “No travois!” Neil blurts out. “Fuck the travois! I’ll stay here. Hold the line, make my own fucking snare. But no travois! Can’t make me.”

  Now Bob regards me seriously. I get it. I just don’t want to understand.

  “We’re not safe,” I state quietly.

  “We watched Martin get shot to death. Nemeth and Luciana have clearly been ambushed on their way to get help. The chances of them still being alive . . . We stumbled upon something horrible. But also, something that’s been going on a very long time if your assessment of the bodies is correct.”

  I nod quietly.

  “Whoever’s been doing this, he has to know using this canyon as his hunting grounds is over. Chasing us away with a series of accidents might’ve protected him and his lair. But the moment he fired that first shot at Martin . . . A party of eight disappearing in these woods? Sooner versus later, this area will be swarming with SAR volunteers, forest rangers, county deputies. Even if our hunter isn’t caught, he won’t be able to resume his game anytime soon.”

  “Making this his last hurrah,” I murmur.

  “Then why hasn’t he attacked yet?” Miggy brings up, his own voice somber.

  Bob shrugs. “He’s had a busy twenty-four hours. Maybe he decided to take a short rest before the final blitz. He knows we have an injured party in a litter and are moving slowly. Though by now . . .”

  Bob glances at his watch. It’s probably already ten in the morning. Once, I’d barely considered that hour worthy of rise and shine. But in the world of outdoor living, half the morning has already passed. If our hunter has been recuperating, he should be good and ready to strike.

  “How far are we from bottom?” I murmur.

  “Too far.” Bob glances at Neil, who’s now studying the damp earth.

  Miggy speaks up. “We could abandon the trail. Pick a less obvious path.”

  “Any hunter knows how to track. Do we look like five people who can cover signs of our passage?”

  We get his point.

  “Then we hit the main trail,” Scott proposes. “Make a run for it. There are five of us. He can’t take us all.”

  “I can bring up the rear,” Neil says, and the fact that he offers it without hesitation, even knowing the likely outcome, makes me blink hard.

  “No,” Miggy snaps impatiently. “I’m not doing this again. Fuck these woods! I’ve lost enough. No way, no how, am I going to turn this into some kind of horror movie where if we’re really lucky, one of us plucky souls finally staggers into town to tell the story of the others’ demise. No. No, no, no. No.”

  Scott waits a beat. “I believe Miggy is saying no.”

  Miggy throws a clump of moss at him. “Fuck no,” he amends.

  Neil smiles. “That’s the Miguel we all know and love.”

  “If we choose not to make a run for it,” Bob ponders much more sensibly, “then what?”

  “We have a rifle,” Miggy says. “And a handgun.”

  “Bear spray,” Scott adds.

  “Scary dual-edged blade,” I offer.

  “Five of us, one of him,” Neil concludes. “Or in my world, fifteen of us, three of him. Either way . . .”

  Bob regards us solemnly. “You’re voting to take a stand.”

  “Do you seriously think we could run for it?” Miggy counters. “Martin, Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy—face it, they were the professionals. If they couldn’t make it . . .”

  Bob nods slowly. “Just for consideration . . . we’re down to our last few snack bars. Our gear is limited. Our shelter, if we’re ambushed in the middle of the night . . .”

  I look behind us at the giant wall of earth, which in a matter of minutes could turn into the backdrop of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

  “Maybe we can’t hold out forever.” Miggy shrugs. “But maybe one of us gets lucky and takes him out first.”

  An experienced hunter on his home turf. Bob doesn’t have to express his doubt for us to know it.

  Slowly, I raise my hand. “If we don’t have the strength to outrun or the supplies to outlast . . . what about the brain power to outsmart?”

  “How?” Bob asks.

  I shrug. Eye the three engineers. “We build a trap.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I have fifteen minutes to feel good about my grand idea, before our scheming devolves into bad Scooby-Doo story lines. We’ll bury a giant net that will scoop up the evildoer when he goes racing by. Except we don’t have a net, let alone Shaggy and Scooby to lead a trained outdoorsman racing over a trip line.

  We’ll dig a pit, cover it with leaves. With what shovels? Let alone the half a day it would take to dig anything sizeable enough. Guy might as well pick us off one by one while we labor. We’d be grateful to be put out of our misery.

  Fine, our own snare to grab him by the ankle. Possible, Miggy allows, assuming we get him to step exactly where we want when we want. The main trail was perfect for ambushing Nemeth and Luciana as it limited them to a specific path. We’re now in the middle of the woods, exposed on all sides, with a guy who’s probably going to put some thought into his approach.

  “One of us can sit before the campfire to lure him in that direction,” I attempt.

  “Great, till he stops a hundred feet away and takes aim with his rifle,” Scott counters.

  “Then I’ll shoot him with my gun,” Miggy finishes.

  “Except one of us is dead, and, oh yes, you can’t shoot,” I retort.

  “I’ll play the bait,” Neil volunteers.

  “Shut up,” we inform him crossly, moving on.

  “We need eyes.” Bob brings us back to practical matters. “A sniper’s perch of our own. Some hope of seeing him before he sees us.�
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  “I can climb,” I offer. “But visibility is limited. This whole area is too thick with pine, spruce, and other prickly trees. None of them make for great scaling, and higher elevation just gives you a view of more needles.”

  “If I were him,” Miggy murmurs, “I’d have a ghillie suit. Experienced hunter? Probably made his own, covered in local brush and leaves. Something like that, he could belly crawl right into our encampment, pick us off one by one.”

  “This isn’t helping,” Scott says.

  “Unless we make our own.” Miggy purses his lips, clearly thinking. “Forget a pit. Too much time and labor. But a series of shallow depressions, say, in a starfish pattern around this area.” He gestures to the tree hollow. “We each hunker down individually, covered in debris.” He looks up at us. “When he appears, we spring. Each of us armed. Attack as one.”

  “We’re the teeth of the trap,” Bob states.

  “What if he waits all day?” Scott argues. “Makes his move at night?”

  “He could have night goggles.” Neil speaks up. “Everyone likes a pair of kickass night goggles.”

  “Yes,” Miggy exclaims in exasperation. “He probably has night goggles. And for that matter, hydration built into his suit, space diapers to absorb urine output, and high-protein gel pouches to keep him fueled and awake. He is fucking better prepared. Now, enough about him. What are we going to do?”

  “Daisy’s red vest.” I hold it up. “He doesn’t know about it yet. He wouldn’t have left it there.”

  Everyone stares at me.

  “We take Miggy’s idea, but move it. This campsite as ground zero is too passive—you’re right, he could hunker down and watch for hours, content we’ll eventually return. We need something that draws him out, forces him to move where we want him to move. Something unexpected.” I glance at Bob. “Even if he got Nemeth and Luciana, there’s a chance Daisy got away. Meaning, she’s a loose end for him. Spotting this remnant . . .”

  “He’ll want to go check it out,” Bob fills in.

  “He won’t be expecting five bodies scattered around its location. He won’t even be looking for us. A scrap of red in the woods. No reason for him not to walk forward and grab it. I did.”

  Miggy starts to nod slowly, then Scott. Finally, Neil and Bob.

  “As plans go, it’s riddled with holes, uncontrollable variables, and way too many assumptions.” Miggy looks around. “On the other hand, anyone got a better idea?”

  We all remain silent.

  “All right. Clock’s ticking. Let’s make this happen.”

  * * *

  —

  My heart is pounding by the time I lead them to where I first found Daisy’s vest. With each step, I wonder if the air behind me will crack with rifle fire and the ground explode at my feet. We’ve already wasted most of the morning between intelligence gathering, first aid, and strategic planning.

  Our tracker is way ahead of us. He knows roughly where we are, how many we are, and how completely unprepared we are. At any moment . . .

  Once again, Bob brings up the rear, this time to try to cover our tracks. Not his best skill, he confessed, but he’s still the most qualified.

  We left some gear loaded into the travois, as if we were planning to return to the tree hollow. We wanted our hunter to feel calm, like he had plenty of time to catch his inexperienced prey. Play to his ego.

  Psychological warfare is as important a strategy as any.

  When we arrive at the fallen log where I first spotted the red vest, I gingerly return it to its snagged position on a broken branch. The log is half rotten, pieces of bark having fallen away to reveal the smooth, ivory-colored flesh beneath. I trace the exposed wood with my fingers. It feels like bare bones. What we all become in the end.

  Miggy walks a circle around the area. There’s only a small patch of open ground before we encounter more trees, a clump of bushes, et cetera. It takes me only a second to realize we’re not digging five depressions in this ground anytime soon. There’s no way we’d be able to hack our way through all the tree roots, let alone the level of disturbance that would make.

  “Plan B,” Miggy states, looking at Scott. “We use the terrain.”

  Scott points up, wincing only slightly, as he gestures at a V formed by two branches at the trunk of a rough-looking fir. “One perch.”

  “The bushes,” Neil offers. He’s leaning against the fallen log, clearly having to recover from the walk over. He’s still doing better than yesterday. “Dig out a little beneath them, that’ll be perfect.”

  “Not for a person my size,” Bob warns.

  Which brings up a good point. How do you hide a glow-in-the-dark Paul Bunyan? These trees aren’t particularly large or old. Growing this densely, they are a collection of thin to medium-sized trunks. Nothing suitable for Bob.

  “I’ll find a place between here and the camp,” Bob says at last. “Closer to the stream, I saw some more open spots. I can signal when he’s coming. Close in from behind.”

  “How are you going to signal?” I ask. “We don’t have walkie-talkies and the emergency whistle will give you away.”

  In response, Bob trills. Then makes four or five other birdcalls that have us all rocking back on our heels.

  “My husband says it’s what made him first fall in love with me,” he says sheepishly. “I also play a mean ukulele.”

  “Um, okay,” Neil offers. “So which of those would sound most natural in these woods?”

  Bob repeats an option that sounds pretty close to the birds I’ve been hearing in the morning. Not knowing my species, I’ve been referring to them mentally as the happy birds. Versus crows and ravens, which are never happy. And seagulls and pigeons, which are just plain annoying.

  Happy birds it is.

  “We need more cover,” Miggy says, still looking around. “Tree branches, boughs of needles we can use to further obscure our hideouts. We’ll need to keep it loose and natural-looking—no neat rows of twigs, maybe living branches, downed logs.”

  I unsheathe my knife. “I can hack off some lower pine boughs.”

  “Perfect, but not around here. The fresh cut marks will be a dead giveaway.”

  I didn’t even think of that.

  Scott sets down his pack. “I can go to work on these bushes, dig out beneath them.”

  “I’ll help Frankie with the branches.” Neil stands, bobbling slightly. “You cut, I gather.”

  I think that’s a mighty generous offer, given he appears ready to fall over.

  “I’ll backtrack,” Bob announces. “Select a size-appropriate lookout option for me.”

  That lightens the mood, makes us all smile. Just in time for Neil’s stomach to grumble. Then Scott’s, as if in sympathy.

  We all hesitate, gaze longingly at our packs. We’re down to nearly crumbs. Going through Luciana’s bag produced two more protein bars, which felt ghoulish, but she would have been the first to hand them over.

  “No,” Bob states firmly. “We don’t know how long this will take. Assuming we win this fight, we still have to get down this mountain.”

  I really wish he hadn’t said that. Such a demoralizing thought.

  “Let’s get through this. When we know we’re making the final trek home, then we’ll snack. Celebratory protein bars for all.”

  That sounds more promising.

  We nod in agreement, then get to our tasks.

  * * *

  —

  Neil and I need to hack down tree limbs away from the initial area. But which way? Strike out to the left? The right? What if our guy is already in either of those places and we walk straight into him?

  We suffer a solid minute of analysis paralysis, then Neil simply takes a step forward and I follow him. What can possibly go wrong by putting the guy with a concussion in charge?

 
; We come to a thick clump of spruce, their prickly limbs all snarled together. I curl my nose.

  “Ouch. My kingdom for a nice, sturdy oak.”

  “I see a bunch of lodgepole pines over there. Softer needles, stickier sap. But in this area, hardwood trees are few and far between.”

  Evergreens it is. I decide to start with the spruce, crawling beneath the ring of low-hanging branches on my hands and knees. I unsheathe my blade, give it a hard stare.

  “You be good to me, I’ll be good to you.” I think it gets the message.

  The first branch snaps off easily, turning out to be half dead. But that also means the moment Neil tugs it out, half the needles shed onto the forest floor. I pay more attention after that, trying to stick to branches around an inch in diameter, and moving around so there aren’t a bunch of fresh nicks all in one place.

  I saw, heave, saw some more. Neil tugs, sits down to rest, tugs some more.

  We’re both a sweaty mess in a matter of minutes, my arms stinging from a thousand needle jabs. I think wrestling a porcupine might be easier. I have to take a break to put on my gloves, wishing I’d done so sooner, as my palms are already red with fresh-forming blisters, while my fingers have become sticky with sap.

  I give up on the spruce sooner versus later. Just too difficult. We cross to a more open area where there is a spread of picturesque soft-needled pine trees adorned with pine cones.

  I hope they are friendlier than the spruce as I hunker down and crawl forward. My hands hurt, my arms are tired. The knife and I are no longer such great friends as I resume sawing through a sticky mess of branches. I learn the hard way that placing a knee on a fallen pine cone really smarts.

  I finally sit back on my haunches, breathing heavily.

  I find myself gazing fretfully all around us. Is the hunter close? Watching, laughing? Or preparing his ambush of someone else? Maybe stalking Daisy herself?

  I can’t have that thought; I start feeling ill.